


To Rewrite History

by stardustsroses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Astronomy Tower, also in which pansy and blaise are a thing?? apparently? idk i always shipped them ok, draco redemption, just some really angsty dramione with a side of fluff, justice for pansy i actually loved writing two paragraphs of her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:33:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustsroses/pseuds/stardustsroses
Summary: rewrite of the ending of Deathly Hallows | the war is over, and Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, has left all of Hogwarts stunned for choosing to betray the Dark Lord that branded him. At the end of a very hard day of loss and blood, he finds no one willing to thank him. No one - but a certain Hermione Granger.





	To Rewrite History

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! I had such a good time writing this fanfic, you guys. I had never realized how much I truly missed these two, and this fandom, as well. I hope you guys enjoy it, and, as it was my first work on these two, I would really appreciate some feedback! I’ll talk to you soon <3 x

**Hermione**

 

It was astonishing, truly, to feel like the world had ended a hundred times in only one day, and for there to still be a sun shining at the end of it.

           Hermione had never seen such a beautiful sunset as the one she was currently looking at. The clouds rolled away gently, purples and oranges and yellows and reds and pinks and blues all mixing together in a canvas of hope.

           Hope.

           They had won the war.

           Her hands were still caked with blood.

           Someone tapped her shoulder, and Hermione came back to herself long enough to look upon Mrs. Weasley’s face, her tender, yet terribly, terribly sad smile enveloping her. Hermione sniffed back the tears – there could be none now. They were forced to move on, they were forced to heal.

           Even if a lot of her friends hadn’t gotten the chance to.

           “Come along, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, holding Hermione by the shoulders. She knew the older woman was holding herself back from crying herself hoarse because of her – and because of her children, because of everybody else that depended on Molly.

           Hermione let Mrs. Weasley lead her to the Great Hall, where people were tending to their wounded. The dead had been carried away, Hermione grimly noticed. Fred too.

            _Fred_.

           “Ron,” Hermione whispered, sitting next to him. Her friend, the smiling boy who had made fun of her the first time they’d met, and the boy she’d loved.

           Ron was barely awake, though his tears were still there. Harry, next to him, was staring at nothing. Emptiness – that’s what they all felt now.

            _Hope_ , she reminded herself.  _Not all of it was gone._

           Her school was destroyed, she thought as Mrs. Weasley placed a cup of tea in her hands.

           Her friends were gone, she thought as Ron rested a cheek on her shoulder, immediately falling asleep.

           And still, Hermione looked forward. She let Mrs. Weasley clean the wound in her arm, she let her clean the blood that had gathered in her nails. She’d almost told Molly to leave it, for it wasn’t necessary, but something in Hermione refrained from doing so. Mrs. Weasley needed the distraction.

           “There,” Mrs. Weasley murmured, wiping at Hermione’s chin. “There, child.”

           Hermione looked to Ron. He’d fallen asleep against her.

           It was foolish now to think of it – but Hermione now wished she could’ve been a different comfort for him. She wished the feeling that had taunted her for years and years while at school was still there. She wished she could’ve been what he wished for her to be, but-

           When she’d denied his kiss, she’d seen the hope leave his eyes.

           If she knew what would’ve happened next, would’ve she taken that step?  _Would_  she, still?

           Foolish thoughts for other foolish days. Not now.

           “Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said weakly. “Will you come home with us?”

           Harry looked up, as if forgetting where he was. For a moment, there was a flash of terror in his eyes as he remembered, as he looked around-

           And then he slowly nodded. “Please, Mrs. Weasley.”

           The-boy-who-lived – broken in pieces. Weren’t they all?

           Harry wrapped one of Ron’s arms over his shoulder, and then looked at Hermione.

           “Hermione?” He asked.

           “You all go on,” Hermione said, her tea left untouched and gone cold. “I’m going to stay for a while to…” she didn’t finish, for she didn’t know what she intended to do, yet. “I’ll catch up.”

           Mrs. Weasley smiled sadly, understanding what even Hermione did not understand, and nodded. “Come back to us when you can.”

           Hermione bid farewell to her friends, and gave Mrs. Weasley a kiss on the cheek, before departing the Great Hall.

           As she passed by, she asked her teachers and the nurses if she could be of any assistance – but they all gave her the same solemn response –  _All is taken care of._

           So Hermione walked.

           She braved the halls of Hogwarts, the Hogwarts she’d dreamed about until she was ten years old. The Hogwarts that held the entirety of her heart. The Hogwarts that had been home. So much happiness in this place, so much sadness, all the same. The terror still lived in these halls, Hermione thought with a chill. And yet-

           And yet the sun was still shining. Tomorrow, it would rise again.

           Someday, Hogwarts would, too.

           And Hermione would, as well. Hopefully.

           Hopefully.

           Her wand was tucked into her back pocket, and she took it in her hand briefly as she walked, feeling the ridges and curls of the wood, thinking of the bushy-haired girl she’d been, walking into Ollivander’s. She could remember the way her lungs had constricted, how her heart had exploded at the first touch of her wand.

           Touching this wand now felt like reaching a part of herself that, in those last few weeks of bloodshed and running and anger and sadness, had felt lost.

           She walked all the way to the towers, taking in the heavy pillars that had fallen, making small reparations as she went – small window frames, un-shattering the glasses, fixing tapestries, pushing rocks and broken stones out of her way, dust lifting and drifting away with the breeze. It was all she had strength for.

           Hermione did not know what had made her go up to the Astronomy tower, and she couldn’t quite remember how she had gotten there in the first place. Her mind slipped away at times, maybe because it needed the rest and distraction, as much as Mrs. Weasley had, or maybe because facing what had been done to her, her friends, and her beloved school was too much to bear. But when she came back to herself once more, she realized with a start where she was standing.

           And  _who_ , exactly, was standing a few meters away.

***

 

**Draco**

 

He understood his father’s screaming.

           Truly, he did.

           But as Lucius Malfoy unleashed his anger on his only son, Draco’s mind switched off. Simply slipped away, into another world, another life, for just a little while.

           There was a time when his father wasn’t cruel – when Lucius Malfoy only wanted the safety and happiness of his family.

           The love of his life had been Narcissa. And Draco had grown up seeing that love only grow with the years, when it should have flicked away like a candle that had burned out – like it happened to other couples. His parents had seemed to be bound by magic itself, forever being each other’s only ones. But, like all things, love can become the poison that destroys you.

           He’d seen the change in his father. Draco had seen how that love had changed him, and, at times, changed his own mother. The love they wanted to protect made them do terrible things.

Draco had wanted to be a part of that change. He’d taken his father’s teachings and made them his legacy, turned his father’s goals into his. He’d done it too well.    

           And in doing well, destroyed his own life.

           So…switching off his mind didn’t work so well.

           “You could have gotten yourself killed, boy,” Lucius said. “And you could have gotten  _us_  killed right with you.”

           “Lucius,” Narcissa hissed.

           His father looked so old, Draco thought. Older than when he’d come back from Azkaban.

           Lucius gave his wife a look, almost looking like a scolded dog, before he turned back to his son. “What were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?” He asked. “What were you  _thinking_ , leaving the ranks, leaving your mother, and stealing the Elder Wand from…from…from  _him_?!” 

           Draco stared his father down. “Say his name, father.”

           Lucius stared back, rage and fear swimming in his eyes.

           Draco swallowed. He said, “Say his name. His name was  _Voldemort_.”

           Narcissa closed her eyes, shivering. Lucius looked to her, as if sensing it, and held his wife in his arms, pushing her to him.

           His mother was wide-eyed. It was as if she did not recognize him when she whispered, “How did you do it? How did you take the wand, Draco?”

           He still did not know.

           The images flashed in his mind: Voldemort, calling on him, reaching out a bony, inhuman hand. His mother, almost in tears, begging him to come to her. His father’s warning, fear-stricken stare. Then his mother’s arms around him, the shame in his relief, the shame in his cowardice, and the feeling that he’d just walked on top of a thousand dead bodies.

           Longbottom’s speech was still ringing in Draco’s ear. His classmates – all of whom he’d declared he’d hated, all of whom were supposed to be below him – and the stares they gave him were still etched in his mind.

            _In death we are all the same,_ Draco thought.

           He shivered, and not just because of the cold in his dark, somber manor.

           “I don’t know,” Draco said back.

           He’d simply-

           He’d seen Potter move, he’d seen Longbottom’s sword at the ready, he’d seen his classmates crying in happiness, relief – it had been a war cry; the sound of a people who would not die without bleeding for the school they loved -, and Draco had seen hope in their faces. So it had been instinctive – to run, run as he’d never run before, even wandless as he’d been, and with calling whatever scraps of magic his blood still carried, he’d flicked his wrist, gasping the words-

           And the Elder Wand had flown off Voldemort’s hands.

           And into Potter’s.        

           Still – Draco hadn’t known how he’d done it. How he’d managed to disarm the most powerful wizard in the world, and  _wandless_ , nevertheless.

           “POTTER!” He’d screamed – a warning.

           Flashing light adorned his vision, and Draco Malfoy readied himself for death.

           But it hadn’t come – not yet, at least.

           It had been Potter, who’d cast a stupefy spell that had missed the Dark Lord by mere inches. Draco hadn’t waited for Voldemort to realize what had been done – that it had been him – and instead…

           Instead Draco ran.

           He’d run as fast as he could have – not towards his parents, not towards the fleeting Death Eaters, but towards the school he wanted to protect, towards the hope he wanted to keep alive.

            _Madness_ , he’d thought to himself then, as he scoured the halls for-        

           A wand.

           He’d stopped near a dead girl, her wand lying a few paces away from her. He’d looked at her before leaning down to pick up the wand, his heart beating on his throat, screams from outside puncturing his ear drums-

           He’d recognized her. Light brown curls and eyes already unfocused, blood pooling around her-            

 _Enough of this_ , he’d told himself, holding that wand tight in one hand, willing the shaking of his legs to stop. No time to mourn the nobodies of this school. Even if they had been his classmates – people he saw every day, and scoffed at, even mocked.

           The wand had felt alive in his hand. It would not work as his own had, but for now it would have to do. As much faith as he had in his wordless magic abilities, Draco did not completely trust himself without a wand, still. Certainly not in the middle of a war.

           Before he could take a step, however, a shadow appeared behind him. Draco had turned, the spell already at the tip of his tongue-

           “Draco,” she gritted out.

           “Pansy,” he gasped.

           For a wild moment, Draco had thought her to be here to harm him. To take him, to-

           But then Pansy looked around, grabbed at the collar of his shirt, and pushed him towards an empty classroom, her eyes wide and black hair all over her face.

           “What did you do?” She smacked at his chest. “ _What did you do_?”

           Draco held her hands, his grip tight. “What I had to.”

           “You  _idiot_ ,” she said. “You could’ve run, and you decided to-”

           A thought had occurred to him then, dark and fearful. “Blaise? My parents?”

           Pansy’s face changed. She composed herself, yanked her hands off his grip, and swallowed the lump in her throat. When she’d spoken, her voice had been shaking. “Safe. I made sure.”

           As much as they’d fought – Pansy and Blaise had always been the ones to have his back. He’d made real friends here, in this god-awful place. And as admittedly terrible as they all were…neither of them left each other behind.

           That was why Pansy had been there.

           “I’m not going,” Draco had said

           “You’ve gone bonkers,” Pansy had muttered, voice high.

           “I can’t,” he’d said, feeling the weakest he’d ever been. “Go, Pansy.”

           “You fucking idiot,” Pansy had been almost crying. “You’ll die.”

           Maybe something was wrong with him. Maybe he did go bonkers. Maybe something deep inside him broke into pieces, and he no longer recognized himself. “Let me die, then.”

           “We’re Slytherins,” she’d said to him. “We protect our own first. Am I supposed to simply-?”

           “Yes,” he’d responded. “Yes, you are. Get your father, get Blaise, and get the hell out of here. Make sure my parents stay away.”

           He could see the conflict in her – the conflict that had always been his own, too. Wanting safety, but wanting something completely different at the same time. Wanting to be… _remembered_  as something else. Something better.

           Pansy had let a tear fall, and did not wipe it away. She’d said to him, pointing her wand at his throat, “You die, Draco Malfoy, and I’ll get myself into the depths of hell and drag you out by your fucking ears.”

           It had been a promise, and he’d known it. Pansy Parkinson did not take her threats lightly – especially if they were aimed to her friends.

           “Go.”

           “I’m getting married in a year, buffoon,” she’d sniffed. “You better be there.”

           Draco had managed a crooked smile – or whatever he could muster in the middle of that chaos – and had said, “I would not miss it for the world, Parkinson. Blaise would cry.”

           She’d watched him, tears in her face. And then, “I’ll see you.”

           Draco had murmured, “I’ll see you.”

           And Pansy had vanished.

           And then Draco had made his move.

           He was back into his manor, his father turning his back on him, shaking his head, his mother still staring at him.

           “Draco…” she held out a hand, and he moved away from it.

           And Draco did something he never thought he would – he turned away from his parents.

           “Draco,” his father warned.

           “Wait, Draco-” Her mother began.

           But Draco vanished.

           He hadn’t wanted to face the anger of everyone at Hogwarts. After all – once a coward, always a coward. He reckoned some time or later, his parents would be taken for questioning, and despite what he’d done today, what he’d proved, Draco knew that he wouldn’t escape that judgment. But he had no other place to go. Draco knew where he needed to be, and so he went back to Hogwarts.

           Even if every step was difficult.

           He’d made it all the way to the Astronomy tower. Draco knew he wouldn’t receive any thanks while he was here, but he had no need for thanks. He simply wanted to be close to the sky – there was so much destruction down here.

           He was ready to vanish when he first heard the footsteps. Draco had to fight the urge to flee, to hide. And reminded himself that that part of his life was now over, that it was gone.

           And then he saw her.

***

 

**Hermione**

 

           Draco Malfoy was chaos incarnate.

           But the moment Hermione caught sight of him, when he wasn’t looking at her… somehow, she had changed her mind.

           There was a calm sadness to him now, as he stared at the new world forming around him. It was eerie quiet, the sun still bright as it sunk down into the mountains, the May air particularly warm and welcoming, carrying with it the scent of wildflowers and pine trees.

           It was easy to forget that flowers still bloomed, even if blood spattered their soil.

           Hermione was very much aware of the tension his body held. Defensive, she thought. So she approached him the way she would often times approach Crookshanks – carefully, with very quiet steps, letting herself relax.

           It was so strange, watching him his close. Hermione supposed that she’d always seen Malfoy as a sort of talking statue – all made of cold marble, easily breakable, but covered with sharp edges that could make you bleed if you got too close. He looked very human in this light.

           There was blood on his cheek.

           He was leaning against the railing in silence, and she dared to join him, although at a distance she considered safe. She could see those sharp edges in the rough line of his jaw, the coldness still present in those eyes. As much as she could see that breakable nature in them, too.

           “So,” Hermione whispered, turning her gaze away from him and tracing the outlines of the mountains around them. “It’s over.”

           Malfoy was quiet.

           Silence, and silence, and silence.

           He was clutching the railing like his life depended on it, his knuckles white.

           Hermione swallowed. And she tried again, “What you did today…I reckon that must have taken a lot of bravery from your part.”

           She was very much aware of the dark mark still branding his arm, just as she was aware of how he tried to hide it from her, turning his arm towards him, keeping it close to his body. Interesting.

           “What do you want.”

           When he spoke, his voice was hard. Cold. Sharp.

           Hermione raised her chin. “To thank you. Without you, it’s possible that another one of my friends could be dead right now.”

           “Because of me, a lot of them are. So, what do you want, Granger.”

           She narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. There wasn’t any victimizing from his part. He’d said it like it was a fact, a fact that he was…

           …sorry for.

           Hermione swallowed again – there was a rope tied around her throat. “They died because of Voldemort.”

           Silence.

           “Go away,” he said, turning his face away. “I want to be alone.”

           She raised a brow at him, and scoffed. “I have as much right to be here as you do.”

           “I was here first, and I wish to be alone,” he said, his voice ranging on the edge of a threat.

           Pompous prick. To hell with him.

           She was trying to be perfectly civil, and he was simply dismissing her, as he always had.

           But Hermione was in no mood for a fight. So she simply retorted drily: “Good thing that I don’t give a shit.”

           She could see the surprise in him as his head snapped to her. His brow furrowed, his mouth opening as if he’d say something equally as foul to her-

           And then he simply…shook his head. Eyes cast downwards. Hair falling over his forehead. As annoyed as Hermione was, she still let her eyes wonder to him. And all at once, she saw what Malfoy would’ve been like, had he been given the chance.

           His hair  _curled_.

           She’d never quite seen it do that – it was thick, and the strands falling over his forehead, over his eyes, started to curl without that god-awful gel he’d used throughout their stay at Hogwarts.

           Before Hermione could debate why on earth she was thinking about Malfoy’s hair, he spoke: “Are you here to take me away?”

           Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised at his choice of words. At his hopelessness. His sneer was weak, the poison in his tongue equally so. It was an odd thing to hear, and see, Hermione thought. As it was having him believe she was here to arrest him.

           “No,” she said. “I wanted to come here, and you just happened to be in the same place I intended to go to.”

           Silence.

           And silence.

           And more silence.

           Still – it was silence that Hermione needed. Her mind was so loud. So, so loud. She still heard screams that never truly ending, the sound of mothers weeping and children asking about their parents.

           But after a while, she found that the best distraction was him. As irritating as he was. “How did you do it?” She asked slowly. “I knew you were close to excellent at non-verbal magic, but disarming the most powerful wizard in the world? How did you do it?”

           Her pride was knocked down a little at the fascination and amazement she’d let slip. But she looked at him persistently, wanting to hear an explanation that would sound half-rational.

           “I don’t know,” he muttered.

           How disappointing.

           “Whatever you did – it was well done,” she said – a bit forcefully. “Truly.”

           Malfoy sneered, “I don’t need your validation.”

           “A  _thank you_  would suffice, and it is what most people consider cordial and even, I dare say,  _necessary_ , when presented with a compliment.”

           And then Malfoy did something that set her veins on fire –  _he rolled his eyes._

           “Honestly,” she scoffed. “Some would say you’re being incredibly rude.”

           “Some would say your voice is as shrill as nails on a chalkboard.”

           “What?!” Hermione screeched.

           “Point proven,” Draco drawled.

           For one second, it seemed like she was tempted to reach for her wand and hex the hell out of him; and for one second, it seemed like Draco was tempting her to do just that – purposefully provoking her, so that he would get the fight that he needed to alleviate…whatever he was going through.

           Hermione had no energy for a fight. Even if that fight was with Draco Malfoy.

           She turned her head away briefly, the night sky already enveloping half of the world, while their half still held bits of sunlight. She would never understand his reasons, not truly, but…but she could somewhat understand what fear felt like. And fear could make you do awful, terrible things.

           It was time to move on, Hermione reminded herself. It was time to look forward, and let hope grow.

           She found herself murmuring, without really intending to, “Does my company offend you that much?”

           Not that she needed  _his_  validation.

           Malfoy looked as if he was going to treat her with nothing but silence. And then, stunning her, he said, “No.”

 

***

 

**Draco**

 

           Something in him was truly broken, if he was debating having a heart-to-heart with Granger.

           Of all people – she had to be the one to show up there.

           His mouth was a traitor, and so was his heart. But he was weak, and she smelled nice, and maybe Malfoy could gather all his terrible, broken parts and assemble them into something she could love.

           He scoffed to himself. Even the idea of it…

           Love. What did he know about love?

           And why did he choose now to give in to this one weakness? As if she could ever look at him as anything other than what he had shown her.

           Granger was silent. She said, “For all that is worth, Draco, you are a product of a damaged world, and a true example of what it feels to be helpless and without choice. Say what you may,” she gave him a look, “but the facts are standing right in front of me. You could’ve disappeared with the rest of them, and yet you stayed, you faced the one that chained you, and you helped. You let your conscience win. Terrible as we might have been to each other…” she acknowledged his look, and gave him a ghost of a smile. “Yes, I am admitting to being equally mean to you, even if you certainly deserved it.” A pause. “It is up to you, Malfoy, what your path is now. Spat those ugly words at me, go ahead, but it won’t erase the goodness that still remains there, deeply hidden.”

           Draco was without words.

           Hermione continued, “I’m not making excuses for you. I know part of you wanted it and part of you believed the things you were being taught. But where I’m from, I was taught to always give people a second chance.”          

           “And why would you give it to me?”

           “Like I said,” Hermione gestured, “there’s a semblance of goodness in you. Or you wouldn’t have sacrificed yourself today to save Harry. You might believe yourself to be hated, and maybe you are by some. But you also gave us hope today. You gave  _me_  hope.”

           Those words-

           They were heartfelt, he knew. Coming from that Gryffindor heart of hers that refused to see the world in black and white, as most people did. But there was rationality in every argument she said, and Malfoy did not expect it to be any less with Hermione Granger.

           “I’m not shocked,” Hermione said to him. There was pride in her voice, as if she’d just confirmed something to herself. “I knew with every terrible thing you said, that there was one good thing waiting to be done, Malfoy. I’m not here to judge you. I’m not here to punish you. For what you’ve done today, for the help you gave Harry, and for what I believe you sacrificed…you have my hand, if you wish for it.”

           Stupid, loyal, honorable Gryffindor.

           Draco did not know how to respond. How to deal with the warmth flooding through his veins when, for years and years and years, there had just been ice and frost coating his insides. Draco did not know how to feel when she looked at him, those dark eyes taking him in, indeed holding no judgement. So Draco did what felt familiar.

           He got defensive.

           “You don’t know me,” he said to her. Spat it, actually. “Don’t pretend to, Granger.”

           And this time, it was Hermione Granger that rolled her eyes at  _him_.

           “Defensive mechanism,” she began saying. “It’s a shield we all use, and you’ve learned to do so very well.” And then she smirked, and there was something cruel and vicious about it. “You cannot lie to me, Malfoy. I cracked you open. So insult me, call me a mudblood. I know inside of you, there’s a man that wants to be accepted and thanked, a man that wants forgiveness. You will not change my mind.”

           Stubborn, this girl.

            _Isn’t that why she makes your blood run hot?_  A voice asked him.  _Isn’t that why you crave her?_

Hermione Granger was a poison he couldn’t stop drinking. She might kill him, someday, truly. And he would welcome death with open arms and a steady heart.

           And maybe it was because he needed those words so desperately, maybe it was because he felt pathetic and hopeless, weak and helpless, angry and loveless, that he hung his head, feeling absolutely defeated.

           There was no more strength to fight.

           No more.

           And she was lovely, and so irritating, and he was absolutely disgusted at himself because-

           No, not because of her blood, not because of what she was, but because he’d let this girl, who’s always been a rival, a competition, a  _something_  to be defeated, crack his heart and soul open, and she’d read him as easily as if he were one of her books. He’d let her. He’d allowed this to happen.

            _In death, we are all the same._

           And all blood ran red.

He couldn’t bear that new softness when she spoke, “Nothing is ever lost, Malfoy.” But he wished for it, all the same.

He hung to it so desperately he thought he might shatter all over again.

“You cannot erase every terrible thing. There is no magic that can do that. You cannot rewrite history, Granger.”

 

Hermione took a deep breath, closing her eyes as the sun kissed the dark skin of her cheeks. Draco noticed too much, all at once: the freckles splattered over her face and neck, dark little dots forming constellations on her skin; a scratch that never healed below her chin, which he guessed was courtesy of that beast of a cat she owned; long, black lashes that touched the top of her cheekbones; curls that fell over her forehead, matted - always matted, that hair of hers.

 

She finally opened her eyes, and gave his mark a pointed look. Then her eyes traced her own - mudblood, it still read -, and said to him: “Maybe not. But you can write your own future. That much you can do.”

He couldn’t-

He couldn’t bear it.

Aching, Draco stepped away from the railing, feeling his suit covered with dust and dots of blood that weren’t all his. He intended to walk away, but her voice stopped him in his tracks, like it was a rope pushing him back to her.

“Draco.”

Voldemort killing his teacher right in front of him.

“Wait.”

Voldemort threatening his mother right in front of him.

Image after image, flashing through his mind. A threat, and another threat, and him losing himself in a bathroom, hopelessly wondering how he would be able to do was he was told, what  _he’d_  ordered him to do, how he’d be able to save his family-

“Draco.” His name, again. A soft plea.

Slowly, coming back to himself bit by bit, Draco turned.

He found himself shaking. “Why?” He asked.

Hermione started, eyes taking him in. “Why, what?”

“Why help me,” he demanded, disgust roiling in his gut, and all of it directed at himself, and himself only. “Why, Granger?” He found himself walking to her, prowling, vulnerability turning into anger, and anger turning into something quite different.

Granger stood by, watching with those dark, clever eyes, always analyzing, always seeing what others didn’t, and wouldn’t. She made no move to reach for her wand. He wished she did – he wished she did not look at him like that, with that serenity and calm, with that understanding and…something else he could not place. Interest?

He stopped in front of her, but even that did not intimidate her. She raised her chin to meet his eyes, hair swaying as the breeze flew by. The sky darkened, and she was beautiful, and Draco might be losing his damned mind, but he wanted…

He wanted so many things, and they all pointed to her.

**_Weak. Pathetic. What have you been taught?_ **

_It’s not true. Any of it._

**_Isn’t it? What world would this be if creatures like her were considered the same as creatures like you?_ **

_A good world. A better world. A world I want to live in. A world I want to build._

**_Weak. Pathetic._ **

“I told you,” Hermione said, eyes tracing every bit of his face. “I think you’re worth saving.”

“No,” he whispered, so low. Barely a breath escaping his lips.

Hermione blinked, and said to him, “Once you realize you are worth saving, and you are worth a second chance, Malfoy, things will start to change.” She took a step forward, meant as a firm gesture, meant to emphasize her point, but it only made him dizzy with desire. “Forgive yourself. I already have.”

He had so many words for her.

He wanted to tell her that she was clever and it irked him, and that he’d secretly began to admire her ruthless intelligence, and that he’d seen her in a new light years before, but that could not be because…

Why couldn’t it be, again?

Draco couldn’t remember.

Not with her breathing so close.

He wanted to tell her that she was good, and he was terrible, and she was the light and he was the darkness that enveloped her. But he also wanted to tell her that he wanted the sun to shine on his face, for once. He wanted to open the door and let himself… _be_. Just  _be_. He wanted freedom. He wanted these shackles off his wrists, binding him to a cause he could not force himself to believe in. Not anymore.

Hermione let her eyes drag to the front of his chest, to the ripped shirt, and down, to the blood splatters on his trousers. To his arm – where his dark mark was.

He tugged his sleeve down.

But in that strange moment they were sharing, in that second of silence where they breathed each other’s air and everything was unmoving and quiet, Hermione stopped him.

And grabbed his wrist.

***

**Hermione**

 

Goodness, he was cold to touch.

Her brain hadn’t even processed the fact that she was touching him, and he was allowing it, before she tugged his sleeve back up.

Vulnerability – it was a difficult thing for her, too. But if he could brave it, if Draco Malfoy could fall apart in front of her, then…

Then maybe she could show him a little bit of her darkness, too.

Her eyes raised to his just momentarily, looking for a sign to stop.

His eyes were wild.

Crazed.

Surprised, and yet-

Curious. Waiting to see what she would do.

With new found bravery, Hermione tugged his sleeve all the way up, towards his elbow, her other hand still circling his wrist. With a pause, she looked down at the dark mark. She remembered seeing it from a distance, sensing the darkness of it-

But now…there was nothing. Just ink on skin. It was terrible, and it made her hairs stand up, but there was no darkness there.

“I thought it would disappear,” he found himself saying. “When he did.”

Hermione looked up, and let his wrist fall from her hand. When she was ready to gain back the distance between them, Draco Malfoy did something she truly did not see coming – he touched her.

His breath seemed to hitch as they touched, the warmth of her seeping into him. It was a strange thing to be the close to him, to breathe the same air, and have him tug her own sleeve up, to show…

**_Mudblood._ **

Malfoy clenched his teeth. There was anger there. Hermione was so surprised at the whole ordeal that she stayed silent, just letting him analyze the scar.

His thumb traced the ridges of the sharp letters his aunt had carved on her skin, each and every single one. If he looked broken…then Hermione had no idea how she must have looked.

It hurt to touch. But she still let him. Not really understanding where the sudden sense of comfort had come from. It had been a long day. Maybe Draco Malfoy was just as broken as she, and maybe comfort could be found by two people of opposite worlds, who had been branded against their will, and told to do terrible, unspeakable things.

Was she so different? Maybe. And maybe not.

And Draco Malfoy was, in all senses, beautiful.

There was a darkness in his eyes that terrified her, because it was the same darkness that had plagued her ever since this war began. But still. Beauty was in all things – even in the broken.

He said, “Why haven’t you removed it?”

Her brand.

Hermione looked down at where his hands touched her, her arm held out to him. Why hadn’t she? It had been hours since the war ended, she’d had time to work on the spell…

“For the same reason you haven’t removed yours. Some scars take longer to erase than others,” she concluded.

Malfoy looked down at her, slowly dropping her arm. She went instantly cold, and a senseless spark of disappointment bit at her.

Noise could be heard outside. They both looked towards the outside world, the night sky embracing them in cold arms.

Celebration.

When Hermione looked to Draco, she thought he appeared exhausted, and ready to collapse. She might have looked the same. Though there was also something close to longing in his eyes as he stared in the direction of the sound.

Someone outside called Harry’s name. Cheers could be heard.

Draco turned his face away. To her.

No ice, no sharp edges. Just…just a stare. That she met. And welcomed. And  _wanted_ , she realized.

Hermione saw so many things in those grey eyes.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

Something irked at her.

Something itching to-

When he turned, his shoulder rubbing against hers, Hermione made an impossible decision. She reached for him.

Malfoy turned his face towards her. And she looked up.

“Let me go, Granger,” he whispered.

“Why does it sound like you’re asking me for the opposite?” she whispered back.

Strange, so strange, this electricity. So welcoming, too.

She was tired and broken, and Malfoy was as broken as she, and the night was cold, and maybe she wanted him.

Maybe she did.

Maybe he…

Draco looked down at her, lips slightly parted. She’d never noticed how well sculpted he was. Or maybe she had, and maybe her mind had dismissed it because of what he was.

Prejudice, she realized, always came from both sides.

“Your head didn’t turn away when your aunt did this to me,” she said to him. “You refused to leave the room. Even though you knew you couldn’t do anything, you did not leave, and you did not look away. Why.”

A soft demand, more than it was a question.

Malfoy stayed silent, as if pushing back the truth.

“You were punishing yourself, weren’t you?” she said. “He took away your wand, stripped you from using your magic in your own home, and so the next thing you could do was make yourself watch because you thought you deserved to be weak? To feel shame for not being able to help? If you did, he would kill your family.”

Silence. He was telling her everything she needed to know without even muttering a word.

Her hand was still wrapped around his arm. She had not let go.

“The only way you could help was act oblivious,” Hermione said. “By pretending not to know it was Harry, while you knew that it was.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m not the man you want me to be.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I know you’re exactly who I think you are,” she said. “And you’re just scared of the fact that I  _see_  you. Aren’t you, Draco?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. The muscle in his arm, the one she was holding, was tense.

She looked up, traced his lips with her eyes. “I think you want me and are terrified of it.”

Silence. Impossible silence. Filled with all the things he did not say.

“Because of my blood?” she asked.

Draco placed a hand on the pillar next to her head. Leaning in. The words somehow crashing into him like a tidal wave, making him angry and revolted and-

“Your blood,” he hissed, “means nothing.”

Hermione stared into his face, into his eyes. Holding back all her fears. “Prove it.”

A second’s pause, in which they looked into each other’s eyes, looking for questions and looking for answers.

She knew he saw it as the challenge as it was. But Hermione wanted him to see what she was requesting, and…and want it.

She wanted him to want her.

And the disturbing thing was that she did not feel any shame in it. In wanting this man who’d played a part in the war that had killed her friends. Maybe it had been buried deep inside her all these years, festering inside her like a disease, eating away at her heart whenever she saw him. And she chose to treat that feeling as hatred.

Maybe it had been, once upon a time.

But not now.

It was anything but.

“Prove it,” she challenged, a mere whisper through her lips as their distance somehow disappeared.

Draco Malfoy was a broken man with the loveliest eyes. She wanted to drink him in; wanted this gravity holding them to never disappear.

Maybe it was wrong, but she did not have a mind to care.

Draco looked into her eyes, and she took a steadying breath the moment he raised his hand, and let it rest upon her cheek. His eyes were lost in her as hers were lost in his, and neither of them seemed to mind.

With only the skies and the stars to witness, he kissed her.

***

**Draco**

 

She was strong and lovely, and Hermione Granger tasted like an early summer morning, pollen on his tongue and sunlight on his cheeks.

Some part of him might’ve been hysterical at this turn of events, but most of him just felt…free.

Free, for giving in.

Free, for allowing himself to want.

Free, for having her hands on his cheeks, and her soft gasp against his bottom lip as the distance between them was completely erased.

He was free. And he was kissing Hermione Granger.

And she was not punching him in the face.

Mad, indeed.

There was something surreal about kissing her, too. The softness of her lips and the warmth of her cheeks. The contours of her body against his and the slight tilt of her chin, so she could reach him.

Surreal because he found himself enjoying it.

More than that – he found himself craving it the more they kissed.

And neither could stop.

Hermione broke the kiss first to breathe, her wild eyes reflecting his own, her hands drifting from his cheeks down to his shoulders. He wanted this, he realized. He wanted her, urgently and desperately. This was what it was like to be his own person.

They stared at each other, her pressed against the pillar, and him pressed against her, and their foreheads touching. She had stolen the air from his lungs.

It was a dance that had been happening for years, without either of them noticing.

“You will end me.” Was what he found himself murmuring.

To his surprise – and endless delight – she let out a breath that sounded very close to a laugh.

He did not want to move. Not as Hermione leaned in, getting on her tiptoes, and kissed the middle of his brow.

And it was a gesture so sweet and tender, so without reason, that Draco might’ve broken apart right then and there if she hadn’t been holding him close.

As surprised as they were with each other, there was no other place they’d rather be.

“You should be down there,” he said to her, because it was his duty to spoil everything. “You should be celebrating with Potty and Weasel.”

“Don’t call them that,” she said, but only half-heartedly. “And don’t tell me what to do.”

“You, Granger,” he said, and kissed her between the words, because he was a madman and she was his only sanity, “are a nuisance.”

“Then why are you kissing me,” she said, as she kissed him in return.

“Because I’m the biggest nuisance of all,” Draco said, sighing. His hand came to wrap around her waist, his dark mark painfully visible through the thin white fabric of his shirt.

Hermione simply stared at him. She was so beautiful-

“You should sleep,” she said softly.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“You’ll be dead if you don’t sleep,” she pointed out, always matter-of-factly. Same old Granger. “Remember  _Emotion and How It Affects Magical Abilities_ , chapter three: ‘no witch or wizard should use their magic while sleep deprived, for it’-“

Draco found himself smiling a delusional smile, and kissing those words out of her lips. “Let me,” he murmured, and delighted himself in the shiver of her body when he touched his lips to the spot right under her ear.

“You’ve proven your point.”

“Want me to stop?”

Hermione debated it for only half a second. “No.”

And when he kissed her again, it was an avalanche for both of them, hitting them both so quickly they both fell.

Draco nibbled on her bottom lip before pulling away, saying, “Nothing should feel this good.”

Hermione touched his chin, watching his eyes. “I’m serious. We should rest. And eat. It’s…it’s been a long day.”

Draco touched his forehead to hers, intent on not letting go, but let his wrist flicker once, a mumbled set of words on his tongue.

Before them, or rather, behind them, a set of food appeared – porridge and toast, hot teas and pillows.

Hermione raised her brows, staring up at him.

And Malfoy simply shrugged. “You were right, as much as it pains me to admit it. You do terrify me. Everything about this terrifies me. But the sun will rise again tomorrow, and so shall I.”

Hermione’s face softened, her lips parting.

Draco swallowed the lump in his throat. He looked at everywhere but her. “I will try.”

Hermione said, “That’s a wonderful thing to hear, Malfoy.”

So they ate, and the stars shined, and neither of them felt the darkness creeping up on them. Of course, it would always be there. Darkness would always live on inside them. But as long as they let the sunshine in, there was no reason to let themselves drown in it.

At some point, Hermione fell asleep against his shoulder, and Draco contemplated this new trust between them. As fragile as it was, he reckoned there was still space for it to grow – for the sun to shine, and the flowers to bloom.

A new world was in front of him. And Draco had been given a chance to leave his past behind, and write a new future for himself.

Taking a deep breath, he looked inside himself for that will, for the spark that Hermione Granger had ignited.

And then he grabbed a quill.

 

***

**Hermione**

 

When dawn came, Hermione had her head resting on a soft pillow, a blanket shielding her from the cold that spring morning brought.

She paused, going back on her memories. Her lips still tingled.

When she looked over to where Malfoy should have been, she found a note.

And, despite the tiredness, the sadness, the anguish and the war still weighing on her shoulders, Hermione found that she had the strength to pull all her broken pieces back together, one by one, bit by bit, as she read the address on that note.

And the message right below saying,

_I’ll write, if you will._

_Yours,_

_D.M._

_**THE END.**_


End file.
